Over two decades of toil had changed him, and Morek was apprentice no longer.
And though the death of Prince Snorri had grieved them both, Ranuld allowed himself a sigh of relief. Perhaps the old magic was not dead after all. Perhaps there were those that could still wield it when his like was gone forever from the world. The tremor in the old runelord’s heart told him his thread was thinning, that soon it would become so frayed that the tendrils of his life would unravel and snap, and then Grungni would welcome him to his halls.
Soon… he prayed.
Elves were gathering. The death of the High King’s only son had galvanised and emboldened them. Gotrek would retaliate. Death would be the only victor, and once again Ranuld was reminded of the darkness that infected the Old World. It came from the gate in the north and could not be gotten rid of now that it was closed. He had to endure, at least until the conclave was concluded and the stone giants roused from their millennia of slumber.
Ranuld opened his eyes, saw the axe and the armour, knew at once who would bear them into battle now.
‘Dawi barazen ek dreng drakk, un riknu…’ He spoke the ancient words of the prophecy aloud. ‘He who will slay the dragon, and become king.’
Four other runelords, ancients all, nodded in agreement.
Feldhar Crageye, Negdrik Irontooth, Durgnun Goldbrow.
Last of all was Thorik Oakeneye, he who had taken the place of Agrin Fireheart in the Burudin. The runelord of Barak Varr carried his own darkness from all he had seen on the island of the elves.
More were needed – the conclave was not yet complete. Around a circular table of stone, three empty places remained.
‘We know his name,’ uttered Feldhar Crageye of Karak Drazh, stroking the forks of his black beard and squinting through his good eye, the other shrouded by a stone patch.
‘Aye,’ said Negdrik Irontooth, grinning to reveal metal-plated bone. ‘Elgidum.’
The blond-maned Durgnun Goldbrow nodded. ‘The elf doom.’
‘The dawi known as Ironbeard,’ concluded Thorik Oakeneye.
A vein of fire ran through the dragon-slaying axe lying on the table before them. Its master runes shone, eager to be ignited; so too the armour alongside it, which was impervious to flame. Fate not design had guided Morek’s hand in their creation.
‘Let it be known,’ said Ranuld Silverthumb, folding his arms, determined not to make another mistake. ‘Morgrim Bargrum will be the one to lift the doom of our race.’
EPILOGUE
Sevekai awoke in a feverish sweat. The nightmare was already fading, evaporating in the chill night like the heat from his cooling skin.
A darkling forest. A frantic flight into a barren glade filled with such a terrible gloaming. The trees alive, and the chittering, snapping refrain of their pursuit…
‘Hush, my love…’ soothed Drutheira. Her hands upon Sevekai’s half-naked body were like pricks of fire against his icy skin.
‘Did you see it again?’
Sevekai nodded weakly.
‘It is always the same.’
‘Visions always are.’
Sevekai turned to face her, lying naked next to him under their furs.
‘You believe it is real? That the dreams are prophecy?’
Drutheira was playing with her hair, more coquettish and much less the viper than she had once been. Strange, Sevekai thought, that their alliance had brought them to this place in their relationship. ‘Perhaps,’ she conceded, but was unconcerned. ‘It was a vision that brought us here, was it not?’
They had left Athel Maraya several months ago, bound for the mountains, when the dwarfs had begun to amass near its borders and their subterfuge as refugees of Kor Vanaeth had started to slip. For one, Sevekai was glad of it. By the nature of their work, spies and assassins needed to blend in to their surroundings, to escape notice, to become nothing more than backdrop. For twenty years, since the dragon rider had left them alone, he and the others had done just that. Asleep until their dark master chose to wake them again. If ever.
Escape was unconscionable. Malekith was silent and travel almost impossible without armed escort. Even for a warrior as gifted as Sevekai, the passage south would have been difficult. They would lie low until summoned again, and if not they would try to endure until the war ended or Malekith attacked and conquered Ulthuan.
The dark dreams had been recent. Drutheira believed they presaged the will of their lord and that he would make himself known to them again soon. She was right, at least about the latter. One night, as they were sleeping fitfully in their bed, Malekith had returned. Seemingly possessed, Drutheira had risen from slumber. She had gone off into the night and killed the innkeeper of their lodgings, slit his throat wide until it painted the wall in the dark lord’s image.
Malchior and Ashniel had risen too to form the blood communion with their mistress.
Orders were given, and they had all left that night, meeting at the outskirts of Athel Maraya.
‘There are times,’ said Sevekai, as his breathing slowly returned to normal, ‘that I wish we could have stayed.’
‘Stayed where?’ asked Drutheira, carving out a graven rune upon the floor of the cavern. She had left the warmth of their bed to do it and was crouched naked in the half-light.
‘In Athel Maraya, or perhaps some other city.’
‘After the ritual slaying of that slave, that would have been unwise,’ hissed a voice from the shadows.
‘Kaitar.’ Sevekai didn’t even try to hide his vitriol.
The other dark elf nodded. He looked to Drutheira.
‘Are you close?’
The sorceress had finished her malediction and spoke words of power unto it.
‘It is here, the creature we seek. Deeper in the bowels of the earth, it slumbers.’
Sevekai glanced around at the cavern, the endless rock surrounding them. He had forgotten how deep they had already penetrated in the mountain.
‘We must go further into the dark?’
‘Yes, but Bloodfang is near.’
Sevekai was on his feet, getting dressed. ‘I’ll rouse the others.’ He looked over to Kaitar but the shade was already
